Bella Muerte
by no mindset
Summary: Bellatrix reminisces and muses. One shot, Bellarius, some RLBB, more like a train of thought and some imagery than anything. RR, s'il vous plait!


**Author's Note:** Yeah. Roddy totally Marie's. Sirius and Bella totally mine. Okay, so maybe Meg's Bella has run off on mine a little. THE REST IS MINE. Bitch, please. Also, if you don't like Blackcest, don't read it. I love hate mail, so if you loathe this, tell me.

**Disclaimer:** The galaxy belongs to JKR.

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**BELLA MUERTE.**

I have never thought myself to be a good person.

I am the passionate one of us three—Andromeda is the quiet, kind one, although she has her rebellions, that is for sure; Narcissa is the diplomat, with her love of politics and elegant things. I am the eldest—the little spitfire who could. I was the one who joined them. Not because of a loyalty to the name 'Black', as Narcissa makes her case—"I live to honour our family, not to serve the Dark Lord," was her reply when Rodolphus asked her to consider it—that was before he knew her as he does now.

No. I joined because I am Bellatrix. The Amazonian woman, my namesake—I was not named merely because it was Father's great-aunt's name, and she had promised my parents riches if they named their firstborn after her. They did not know that I had a twin, however, and Andromeda they named for her eyes. Her rejected suitors claimed that they are like the heavens.

_Heavens._ I am pondering this when he touches my arms.

He always breathes on my neck. Not my actual neck, but right on the nape—the spot just below my occipital bone. It sends shivers down my spine. I hate him.

Of course, he knows that I actually don't. I could never hate a man of such passion—he is loyal, and brave. If he had not fallen into such a crowd at school, he would have made a fine Death Eater. We would not be so secretive if he were not a traitor—you don't turn on your blood in our society. It is okay if cousins are lovers—everyone would know, but nothing would be said.

And he is my cousin. By blood, not marriage—our fathers are brothers. We know that it is disastrous of us, yet we do not seem to care—Rodolphus cares, however. Rodolphus knows.

It sickens him. It eats at him—he knows that when I say I am headed to Spain on orders for the weekend, or when I am perusing the crowd by the lake, that I am actually with Sirius. One time, he followed me—I hexed him and sent him home. When I slid into bed that night—he would not speak to me. He knows that I love him—he cannot understand that I am capable of loving more than one at a time.

Although I would not call what I have with Sirius 'love'—it is not remotely similar. It is lust—pure, simple, carnal cravings that Rodolphus cannot satisfy. I do not know why—it seems as though I like to hide.

This is why I do not kiss him back when he kisses me.

"What's wrong?" he asks, and I shake my head. My hair is wet from the rain—he has wards on his flat, so I have to Apparate and wait outside. It drips on his bare arms—he's so strong. I can't help wanting to be inside there. Is that what love is? Wanting to be inside someone's ribcage, so that your heart can feel his beside it? When you want so badly to be one being? If that is love, then what I feel for Rodolphus is something completely alien. What I feel for Rodolphus is—intrigue. I can never figure him out. Sirius is different. He is right there, present. When I have sex with Rodolphus, he is never there, even if he is there. He is not faithful, I know—it is obvious—but he could at least be present when we are in bed.

Sirius is always there. He's like the cricket that lives under the bureau—you know he's there, and it's very annoying when he chirps, but you don't seek him out and kill him. If you do find him, you cup him in your hands and admire him.

Not that I admire Sirius—just the way he holds me. When his arm is snaked over my bare ribs, or his nose is angled just so in my collarbone—that is when I know how I feel. When he breathes down my neck—it's something that I despise, but if it weren't there, I would go crazy—which he is doing at this precise moment.

And then I realise that it's Rodolphus. Rodolphus is breathing down my neck, and my chest is on fire, and I have chills. "What do you want?"

He stands straight, towering over me—I am in the library, a Dumas tome open in my lap—and says, "It is time for dinner." I scowl at him, because he's smirking, and I know that he's had the house elves prepare bouillabaisse or some other arrogant French dish, and that he thinks I'm going to shag him tonight. I swear to myself I'm not, even though I know I will. I hate the French.

Not that I hate all things French—but the majority, yes. It sickens me when he speaks in that language that I do not understand—I would think he was insulting me, if I did not know that if he were to insult me, he would have the decency to do it so I can understand.

He does love me, after all. Sick as he is—he loves me, and though I may never know why, that is how it is. I am not unhappy. I am Bellatrix.

I tend to be happiest when he is playing with my hair. Not twirling it around like poncy teenage girls—Sirius tends to stroke it when we're in his bed. It is the exact shade of black as his—we look so alike that it scars me, sometimes, like when I see myself in the mirror on his bedroom door when I leave.

He complains incessantly. It makes me sick—I _hate_ complainers. When I come over—"Bellatrix, what took you so long?" and then attacking my face with his mouth. When I'm tired, and I roll off of him and pull my blouse on—"Why do you wear so much black?" And then there are things that I love: he always notices when I smell like jasmine; he never thinks it's more than what it is—lust; he understands me.

He always has.

When we were little, and Mother would dress me in pink and take us to Grimmauld when they had lunch—Andromeda would bring her books, Narcissa would bite her lip and tug at the ribbons in her hair. I was always closer to Sirius—I would grin with delight when we went to play with him. Narcissa liked to sit with Andromeda in the drawing room, playing the piano while Andy read. Sirius and I would go on adventures.

Grimmauld Place's garden used to be the best part of the whole house—we disliked the cold marble, the gold and silver ornamentation, the curtains and porcelain and things we couldn't touch. So the gardens were ideal—they were massive, full of moving and growing things. There were flowers—lilies, sunflowers, roses, jasmine, tulips—and vines, along with the rows of vegetables. We ignored the house elves and decided to be explorers. We were distracted children, and we loved excitement. We would hide in the vines, picking bouquets of white and orange flowers for my sisters, and we would whisper secrets to one another. Sirius expressed to me his love for canines, all things purple, and a little redheaded girl down the street that he would wave to when Aunt Selene took him into London. I told him about how I hated when Andromeda ignored me, that I hated my mother, and that the only things I loved were my black stockings and spending time with him in the garden.

Now, just over ten years later, the garden is not so exciting. People suppose that I dislike living things. This is a misconception—I have loves and cares. I have killed people, it is true—but does being a murderer constitute heartlessness? I think not, but society begs to differ.

That is more of Narcissa's topic. I dislike topics such as that—I don't like to debate. I am impatient; I like things to be one way or another. This is why we get along so well—he thinks in the same fashion.

Although I would never tell him—things I tell him are simple. "Don't look at my like that." "Idiot." "Shut up." Other things—if I were to say them, he would give me a quizzical look. He would breathe down my neck some more.

I hate when he breathes on my neck.


End file.
